EC727 (2)

@ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

Continuing

Eso’s

Chronicles

Reminding

The reader of

William Blake’s

“The Lamb”

From his

Songs of Innocense and Experience ^{https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience}  :

We began this series with the previous blog (EC726) and Blake’s “The Sick Rose”. We continue with “The Lamb”:

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name
For he calls himself a Lamb
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child
I a child, and thou a lamb
We are called by his name

Little Lamb. God bless thee!

Little Lamb, God bless thee!
^{https://www.youtube.com/a?v=izZWdqvEoKA}

(Adlib:)

O Little Lamb,

O Little Lamb,

Dost thou in

Sick America

Awhile?

Accustomed as we are to vulgar TWEETS and TWITTERS and like, we no longer remember  the civil voice of poetry. The Levithan of America ^{https://www.google.com/search?q=image+gustave+dore+the+destruction+of+leviathan&client=firefox-b-d&sxsrf=ALeKk02PBPKPKCsUXw3uXvBtzBmxLjw5nQ:1582825478110&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=NiX6SDEIni1iSM%253A%252CZQhNl5bgZZja5M%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kQQ-rvXTY3oPSU8pvvF8R7rlFluiA&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjbv_SypPLnAhXIvosKHXqmCFsQ9QEwAXoECAoQBw#imgrc=NiX6SDEIni1iSM} has swallowed us. Fucked up men and well fucked women seize our attentions and sicken our mind. Poetry has disappeared from the public arena to the hidden pages of so-called ‘poetry magazines’.

O Little Lamb,

Art thou

Dead of

The virus

Incubating in

Its brain?

EC726

@ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

For today

Eso’s

Chronicles

Reminds

The reader of

William Blake’s

“The Sick Rose”

From the poet’s

Songs of Innocense and Experience ^{https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience}  :

“O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.”

^{https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyrvE_153lc}

Of course, The sick ‘Rose’ in our time is none other than ‘poetry’.

With all of us accustomed to vulgar TWEETS and TWITTERS and like, the civil voice of poetry has disappeared from the public arena to the hidden pages of so-called ‘poetry magazines’.

Still, as Wm. Blake and Poetry Broadsides of Old prove ^{https://www.biblio.com/book-collecting/what-to-collect/poetry/what-are-broadsides/} , poetry need not disappear from the ring of public hysteria and executions ^{https://www.rt.com/news/481254-hanau-shooting-suspect-dead/}  , but may—if it has a will—insert itself

As a

Crumb of bread

In the crack of

The keyboard

Of our

Dusty computer